


wanderlust

by canvases (oilpaints)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpaints/pseuds/canvases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it feels like Konoha, Komi, and Tokyo at midnight are the only things in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

> basically, I adore this pairing with all my soul, and I hope you’ll like them, too.  
> edit: I also found out that there is [art](http://starlity.tumblr.com/post/150658476392/wanderlust-by-oilpaints-is-such-a-pretty-fic) for this by starlity and I’m still yelling at how pretty it is! ♥
> 
> (reccomended listening is [daydreamer](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=C4NdVjADrYI) by skyscrapers)

 

  
_he told me i was his world_  
_but i saw galaxies in his eyes and_  
_what’s a planet to a universe?_

 

  


 Visits to the arcade are always hard on Konoha Akinori’s wallet.

It’s not like he’s a bad player—far from it, actually. He’s always had a knack for the games there, which often leads to his friends poking and prodding at him to try and beat every new game. Slipping his fingers into the trigger of faux machine guns, shooting his way through every level, not using any tokens to revive, and getting the high score has always been _easy_ for him.

No, you see: the problem is a 5’4 hurricane named Komi Haruki who always manages to take about 90% of his impulse control, most of his weekly allowance, and all of his breath away.

Konoha feels a tug on the sleeve of his hoodie, and you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s the aforementioned hurricane. The blonde doesn’t even sigh anymore, turning to meet the pair of eyes that is currently boring holes into his skull.

Komi gestures to a crane game— _by god_ , Konoha hates those, they’re _definitely_ rigged, _all_ of them—with rosy-cheeked animal stickers pasted on the side, playing a cheery tune along with the flashing lights.

“I want the pikachu,” is all the cause of his distress says, flashing him a toothy grin. “You think you can get it?”

“We’ll see,” he mutters under his breath, fishing a shiny token from the pocket of his jeans and popping it into the slot. The game comes to life with an overly bubbly tune that makes him cringe.

Komi hums along to the tune as Konoha’s almond eyes narrow, his fingers flicking and dragging the joystick around. The metal crane drops, curling around the stuff toy of the infamous pokemon and dropping it down the chute.

Konoha just steps back with a little smirk, shoving his cold fingers into his pockets, indifferent to the cacophony noise around them. Komi moves to pick up the plush, holding it close to his chest as he says his usual happy thanks.

“Okay, we can go to the shooting games, now,” Komi chuckles. “I know you like those. I think Saru said that someone beat your high score.”

Konoha’s lips curl downwards. “Not possible.”

“I was just joking!” The smaller boy just laughs, slapping his arm. “It really is, though,” he adds as an afterthought.

Komi begins telling him about some movie he wants to watch, moving his hands a lot as they stroll to the other corner of the room. The shadows highlight his face and hundreds of neon-coloured stars shine in his eyes as he laughs his pretty laugh and points out something he wants to try out.

Konoha smiles a little to himself and doesn’t point out the earlier offer, allowing Komi to drag him into the loud chatter and endless laughter, annoyingly loud but impossibly bright.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Konoha stares, stares, stares, and stares. The owl keychain in his palm stays, wide, glassy eyes shining under the bright lights of a convenience store. Komi had got on his toes and dangled it in front of his face, saying something about _friendship_ or whatever.

It’s—well, it’s whatever.

(Translation: it’s _stupid_ that something _this small_ can have him smothering a fond smile but at the same time it _makes sense_ because Komi himself is pretty small but he’s got this bigger-than-life personality and it’s _irritating_.)

The night breeze and cars speeding past sweep his blonde hair to the side, and he curls his fingers into the little charm. His hands are always cold, still are, but tonight, standing in the middle of Tokyo, they’re warmer than they’ve ever been.

He tucks it safely in the pocket on his jeans, pulling the hem of his shirt over it. He leans back against the glass doors and waits until they open. He tilts his head back and breathes.

Komi comes bounding out the doors with a small, sincere smile. He presses a cold drink into Konoha’s waiting hands and says, “Where to, next?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
“We’ve never been in this street before.” Komi marvels at the sights, however mundane. The magenta bougainvilleas blooming in this house, the towering mango trees over there, the black cat slinking across the opposite sidewalk.

“ _You’ve_ never been in this street before,” Konoha corrects with a teasing smile. “I’ve been here—well, however many times. I _live_ in this village.”

“Okay, _smartass_ ,” Komi retorts, waving a dismissive hand. The streetlights cast a soft yellow glow on his face, and his eyes are smiling like crescent moons. “Let’s take the left turn over there!”

Konoha sighs as quietly as he can, shaking his head. “You know I’m pretty sure you still have homework to do. I mean—”

“Let’s go!” Komi says, warm fingers closing around his wrists to drag him off. He just shakes his head in defeat, wondering absently where they’re headed next.

He really needs to learn how to say no—but, well, he may as well try to silence a summer storm.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
The lightbulb in Komi’s room has always been bright, and the curtains have always been thin. Needless to say, it’s always so—full of light there, even with a sunshine boy making a mess of it all.

Konoha’s lips curl in distaste as he picks up a red t-shirt that his best friend—actually, no, he refuses to be associated with the _absolute moron_ as of the moment—has probably worn for a week, tossing it into a pile with the others.

“Why are you such a fucking _mess_?” He asks aloud, but bites his tongue when he remembers how often he calls Komi a _goddamn hurricane_. “And what on Earth are you doing? I’m pretty sure it’s dirty under there.”

He peers down under the bed, where half of Komi has disappeared into. He receives a huff in response, and probably an eyeroll. “I know that, dipshit. I just— _aha_!”

“Careful,” Konoha murmurs as he begins to crawl out. He raises an eyebrow when Komi just beams at him, holding up a worn-looking volleyball. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope!” he replies, popping the ‘p’ like he always does. Konoha just sighs wearily, plucking the tufts of dust tangled in Komi’s short hair. He casts a furtive glance at the pile of dirty clothes in the corner and tries not to imagine what a mess it must be under the bed.

“Listen, Aki,” Komi says, shifting the ball in his hands, ignoring at the shout of don’t call me that, you ass! in favour of continuing his speech. “We’re going to Nationals, and it’s the last year we have the chance to play with the team.”

Konoha bares his teeth, sticky fingers curling into his cold palm. “Stop,” he says. “We’ll practice, okay?”

Komi grins, satisfied with—well, whatever it is he’s satisfied with. He knows ( _of course_ he _does_ ) that Konoha would have agreed either way. “That’s good. Yeah, let’s go.”

They leave the house and stumble out the backyard, where a rope is already tied between two trees, one end higher than the other. They’ll just have to make do.

That’s exactly what they do, actually: setting a steady pattern of serve, receive, serve, receive, serve, receive because there’s not much else to do with a hurricane for a libero and a jack-of-all-trades.

They collapse onto the grass after an hour—or, or, was it two? Konoha uses the collar of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat on his forehead, while Komi ignores his tank top sticking to his back in favour of tossing the volleyball to the moon and back.

Konoha stares at the pretty array of stars, squints at them to see what’s written in them. He finds nothing but darkness and spots of light, all too far from his reach. Still, it’s quite the sight. “It’s nice out, tonight, huh?” he says, keeping his eyes trained to the sky.

It’s a shame, since Komi laughs a little, because he hasn’t been looking at the stars at all. Just one, he thinks, then laughs again. “Isn’t it?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Konoha’s room isn’t the neatest, but it’s definitely neater. The rug was vacuumed yesterday, his books are carefully placed on his desk (he has to admit, he spent more time stacking them than reading them) and an old radio is settled on his nightstand.

The sheets are nearly falling off the bed, and the pillows are scattered (that’s Komi’s fault) while the hurricane himself is sprawled on the floor, on the carpet by the bookshelf.

Konoha nudges him with his foot, snickering. Komi pops one eye open and glares. It makes him laugh a little harder, all shaking shoulders and crinkling eyes. “I still need to get your futon, you know?”

“Then get it, dipshit,” Komi says, throwing his head back to groan. “It’s a big day tomorrow, and—”

“—you kept getting your ass beat in Mario Kart,” Konoha finishes in sing-song, throwing a peace sign over his shoulder. Komi grabs a pillow, flings it at the door, and calls him a brat.

“You keep insulting me,” Konoha says a little later when he’s arranging the blankets, “in my own home. This is an offense, an outrage—”

He gets a pillow in the face for his efforts. It’s a good thing Konoha’s such a pillow hoarder. “It’s going to be a massacre if you don’t shut up,” Komi grumbles, reaching over to play with the knobs on the radio.

“You’re ready, right?” Komi asks later, hugging a pillow to his chest. It smells faintly of home and the lavender detergent that his mother always uses. “We’re going to destroy nationals.”

 _That’ll probably be just you_ , Konoha almost says. He bites back a laugh, and instead replies, “You bet.”

The song that’s currently playing is—a little nostalgic, too bittersweet, for their tastes. Komi talks over it, babbling about this and that. Konoha reaches over and shuts it off. “Close your eyes,” the blonde-haired boy says in lieu of a good night.

Komi chuckles in response, sounding a little breathless—a whisper for a laugh, so as not to wake anyone. “Yeah, yeah.”

 

 

  
_but you can skyrocket away from me_  
_and never come back if you find another galaxy_  
_far from here, with more room to fly_  
_just leave me your stardust to remember you by_

 

 

  
Konoha pops open a can of soda under the moonlight, but settles it beside him instead of holding it up to his lips. The stars don’t twinkle so much as blink, the moon retreating into the clouds.

Komi is right next to him ( _well_ , isn’t he _always_?) with his feet bare and toes pointed to the sky. “We did well,” he says, like he’s tasting the words on his tongue.

Konoha chuckles, and even though it lacks most of the usual mirth, his fingers circle around his soda can as he holds it towards his friend. His eyes crinkle in the beginnings of a smile. “Damn right we did.”

Komi laughs a little, and the everything brightens just a bit. He takes his own bottle and taps it against his own. “I hate growing up,” he says, “more than anything.”

Konoha can’t help but smirk. “You haven’t gotten any taller.”

The smaller boy shoves him, but he’s laughing, pretty much back to his merry self, because Komi Haruki just doesn’t do sadness. He falls onto Konoha’s lap, sighing.

He says, “I look forward to seeing where we’re headed next, though.”

Konoha smiles a little at that, just a little teeth showing. “You and me, both.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Saying _goodbye_ is hard (even harder than saying _good night_ ). It makes things sound so— _final_ , like a neat little bow to wrap everything up.

So instead, Komi forces a grin and says, “I’ll meet you at the train station, before you leave. Count on it.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Even then, goodbye tastes too bittersweet on their tongues. They’ll be calling and texting and whatever, so—no big deal. Konoha’s heart is fluttering in his chest for all sorts of reasons, and he wants to close his fingers around the feeling and give it a name.

Komi flashes him a bright, beaming that smile that sends a warmth flooding down his chest, like a hundred summer days spent together. “See you,” he says, almost whispering. Somehow, his voice is louder than it’s ever been.

“Soon,” Konoha says, nodding. He grins, pale lips stretching over his teeth for the first time in a long time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
The future is a—strange thing. A concept as foreign to them both as sitting still and finding a chance at adventure and leaving it be. Needless to say, they text on weekends and call on weekdays.

But—as previously mentioned, the future is a strange thing, where the impossible becomes possible and the messages just stop. Not entirely. They text and call weekends, but it’s different, it’s harder, and they’re two wanderers that weren’t built for distance, however small.

(Maybe that is the reason for this. They didn’t go far enough to be missed.)

Konoha’s never liked calling, and Komi’s not entirely fond of texting. The latter never runs out of things to talk about, but it’s different when the former wasn’t there to see it all.

And that’s fine. They’re not codependent. Konoha happens to be going to the same university as Kai Nobuyuki from Nekoma, and Komi become roommates with Saru (he likes to recall all their shenanigans over the phone.)

It’s just— _strange_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Konoha still likes to explore at night, whenever he gets the chance, because he’s in Tokyo and the city never sleeps, so neither does he.

He’ll board any train at any given time, and allow himself to be pushed along with the crowd (or lack thereof). He’ll take blurry pictures with his phone, and wander the streets with a strange kind of wonder in his eyes.

His mother always told him that it was as if Tokyo changed whenever it got the chance, a subtle shift, blink and you’ll miss it. Konoha understands now, because there are so many places he’s left unexplored _here_ —what of the _rest of the world_?

He gets lost, and he lets himself be. He’ll ask for directions, find a map, or just try and find his way. It’s thrilling, knowing he’s mapped out another area. It’s lonely, knowing that he did it alone.

(He keeps the owl charm in his pockets at all times, or straps it to his bag. It makes everything a little brighter.)

He’ll send his photos to Komi, sometimes, and talk about the things he’s seen. He wishes he could do it all the time, but it feels— _weird_ , so he doesn’t.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Konoha scribbles off the last words of his homework, blinking and glancing up at the clock. _Huh, it’s only eight?_ He carefully stacks his books and notes on his table, until he hears a few knocks.

 _Who the heck could it be at this hour?_ He wonders, pushing off his chair to wander over to the door.

When he opens it, he feels his breath hitch in his throat. Guess who’s standing there like he hasn’t changed a bit, eyes sparkling with—some kind of emotion Konoha can’t quite name?

Komi flashes him a beaming smile, and the world spins.

“Hey,” he says, and it feels like high school all over again, “wanna go on an adventure?”

 

 


End file.
